the art of dying
by MandeePotter
Summary: She still remembers the first dream.


**I know, I know. I need to update my other fic, but I couldn't shake this idea. Hope you all like it!**

She still remembers the first dream.

It happened when she was a mere child, only six or seven years old. It seemed rather fantastical and magical to her. She remembered the faces of the people, and the cacophony of noises floating through the air. She remembers the joy she felt within it.

It all seemed to be from another time, the bonnet tied beneath her chin, and the silky dress that hugged her tiny body. She smiled at the way the older man, _her father, a strange instinct said_, played about with her, and stole little trinkets from the bustling people running around the little inn, and gave them to her. She remembers the way the woman, _her mother_, squeezed and kissed her cheeks, and the way all the other guest danced and laughed with her. The atmosphere had a slightly skewed feeling, with the scent of alcohol and sweat mingling though the air, but she also could smell baking bread, and a strong perfume that reminded her of flowers.

It was sweet, but also sickly.

Eponine loved it.

* * *

The first night after that dream Eponine stayed up for hours, hoping for it to occur again, but it never did. Eponine clung to the shreds of that dream through her childhood. Because, while that dream might have been dripping with a sickly sugary edge, this childhood was all sharpness and clarity.

She hid under her bed or inside of closets as she heard bottles clanging downstairs or moans from her father's bedroom, and she watched as skinny blonde women who certainly weren't her mother walked in and out. She saw the guns laid out on the kitchen table as large men who stunk of drugs that she didn't know the names of slept on the spare couch.

Her father never laid a finger on her, but somehow she wished that he would, because at least it would remind her that this life wasn't another dream.

She longed for the girl with the soft curls and the tiny dimples.

* * *

The next dream happened when she was in middle school. It was already a bad enough time as it was, stuck in an awkward phase, not fitting in at home or school.

When the first wisps of the dream reached her mind, she was ecstatic, and tore to grab to them, sinking her little claws into them, hoping to see more of this strange life unfolding before her.

This was nothing like the first dream.

It was freezing cold, and the silk dress was replaced with rags that itched against protruding bones, and left her arms uncovered to the snow. She was dragging along a box of belongings and coughing as snow stuck to her eyelashes. Her hair was grimy and tangled, and her fingers were cramped and frozen. Her lips were cracked and bleeding.

The man and woman were walking in front of her, _the voice urged her to leave it at that, not to think of them as mother and father, it shoved all familial ties out of her mind quickly_, and Eponine tried to leave it at that, but odd flashes of what felt like memories plagued her mind.

They shouted at her to keep up, they had to make it to Paris tonight, they had to find an apartment. Eponine felt her limbs numbly obey their orders and trudge along down narrow streets filled with mud and broken glass that cut through her the sad, thin excuses for shoes that she wore.

_How did all of this happen? _She wondered. Where did her fantasy go?

_If you wish to know how, all you have to do is simply let the thoughts in. Let the memories enter, open the floodgates, it will spill into you, it will eat you alive, it will consume you. You'll hate yourself for it, you'll believe that ignorance is bliss, but Eponine, you'll have knowledge. You'll know all of the secrets, you'll see the story progress. The question, dear Eponine, is do you wish to know what becomes of this little life? If someone handed you a book about your life, would you read to the last page? Would you accept the consequences?_

The memories poured through, and she collapsed in a heap, screaming and wailing until her body fell asleep.

She woke up the next morning years older than any thirteen year old had the right to be.

* * *

She lived every day of Eponine Thenardier's life through her dreams at night for six years. She had grown, and she had hurt.

The girl had the same face as her, and they shared a last name, even if the first Eponine's wasn't true. The Jondrette name was a lie to her, while it was inked upon the certificate of life for this version of Eponine. Sometimes it felt like they were two separate people instead of one soul born twice into the same body. It wasn't understandable to Eponine, but she let the confusion overtake her. She knew better than to question the universe.

Eponine now had graduated and planned on attending university on scholarship next year when school started. Summer hadn't been good to her so far, as the weather warmed, so did the tensions in her dreams. A revolution was on the horizon, Eponine could feel it, and it made her shudder. Nothing good would come out of this revolt. She could simply look at any textbook to find the answer, but she purposely avoided anything that could spoil it for her.

A warm summer night in June revealed her death. Eponine woke up, vomiting and screeching like a banshee. She was thankful that her father was away on a long term drug operation, otherwise he'd probably march into her room with a bat. He'd taken to hitting her after she woke up night after night screaming from her nightmares, her past. She let the bat hit her, and let her mind wander back into the 1800s. It wasn't as painful anymore. And it wasn't as if anyone at school cared about the bruises anyway.

Her death shook her to her bones. She vomited until only blood dribbled out of her lips, and she coughed violently, wrapping herself in blankets, despite the sweltering heat.

She knew that it was only a matter of time before Marius and the others lost their lives as well. She knew how the barricade would end. She was the first to die, but she certainly wouldn't be the last.

She shivered and shook, and she knew in the core of her soul that she was surely going mad. How could a girl who lived two lives stay sane?

The next night she didn't dream.

* * *

The university was different. It was safe, it was beautiful, but it gave her anxiety.

She knew what it was of course; it was the same university that the amis went to in another life. She squirmed in her seat, thinking that Enjolras could've argued with his professor in this very classroom. Or that Marius laughed in the corners of the halls that she walked through in the mornings.

She applied because of the magnetic draw she felt. There weren't many things that still remained from her old life, and she loved to visit the few things that still stood. She loved to run her fingers over the places they had once touched in another world. She cherished those little monuments.

She wondered what it was like at the barricades after she died. She wondered if a single one made it out alive. She wondered what happened to her parents.

Her heart had hardened after her death in the arms of a man who could never love her. She was guarded, and alone. As always. Eponine decided that she was best on her own. She couldn't tell anyone her secret, and she didn't want to taint the story by sharing it. It was the only thing that truly hers. She owned the barricade, she owned the gunpowder and the spark. She owned the blood that ran out her body and onto the pavement, she owned the story. She owned the amis and marius, and the inn, and the revolution. She was the only one who could feel the pain of those days, she was the only one to know what it was like.

That was why Eponine didn't talk to anyone at university. That was why she drank in knowledge instead, and tried to do everything she never got the chance to do in her life before.

* * *

She was in the courtyard typing her paper, a history one, on France's progress after the revolution, making it difficult for her not to spit out her own opinions to the professor when a boy walking a few yards away from her caught her eyes. His head was cast to the side, surveying the area.

They were a blue color, his eyes, hardened with a fierce passion. Even when talking about the most trivial topics, the passion remained. They were as unchanged as they had been over a hundred years ago.

They swept over her as if they hadn't lived another life together. One of fear, hope, and revolution. They scanned over her, unseeing. As if she was a complete stranger.

Alexandre Enjolras walked right by her. The fairytales were all real.

* * *

**Ahhh, so I really hope you like it! Reviews mean the world to me! I'll be alternating updates between my two fics, so expect them to be frequent, because I have a good idea of where each of these are going. Follow me on tumblr for previews and updates! My tumblr is grantairedd! **


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